


You’re Still A Dream Of Hope To Me

by BlackUnicorn



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Attempt at Humor, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale to the Rescue (Good Omens), BAMF Aziraphale (Good Omens), Bisexual Dean Winchester, Canon-Typical Violence, Case Fic, Castiel and Dean Winchester Use Their Words, Castiel is alive, Coming Out, Crossover, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley is Good at Being a Demon (Good Omens), Dean Winchester Lives, Dean Winchester in Denial, Dean Winchester is Bad at Feelings, Demonnapping, Developing Castiel/Dean Winchester, Established Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), First Kiss, Happy Ending, I wrote this instead of my dissertation, Kidnapping, Kinda, Light Angst, Love Confessions, M/M, Multi, POV Alternating, Post-Canon, Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), Sam Winchester Knows, Supportive Sam Winchester, Threats of Violence, but its fine, this is a mess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-16
Updated: 2021-03-16
Packaged: 2021-03-24 03:49:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30066228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackUnicorn/pseuds/BlackUnicorn
Summary: “There you go, love.” A plate with a generous slice of apple pie was set on the table and the man-shaped being across from Crowley made a face that looked like it was trying very hard to be both exasperated and excited.“You told me to order for you, so I did,” Crowley said, innocently as you please, “And I happen to be rather fond of apples.”***“What can I get ya?” the waitress asked.“Well – Molly,” Dean read her nametag, “How ‘bout some of that apple pie?”“’fraid that was the last slice,” Molly said and Dean could feel the smile steadily dripping of his face, “We still have cake, though.”“No, thanks,” Dean answered, “Just coffee is fine.”***It was supposed to be a holiday.Crowley and Aziraphale make a trip to the States for a little change of scenery.Sam and Dean are still recovering from everything that happened.Things sort of go downhill when the Winchesters think they're on a Hunt for a Trickster, then uphill, depending on where you stand, and then they just go sideways.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 5
Kudos: 51





	You’re Still A Dream Of Hope To Me

**Author's Note:**

> I stopped watching Spn after the whole Amara/Darkness plot thing so it's been a while and I'm not planning on catching up on it any time soon. All I know about the finale is what I learned on Tumblr so be warned...  
> Also, the footnotes are fake. I actually tried to make them properly and completely messed up and I'm just not good with tech stuff. Sorry

The last time he’d been to America, he had, accidentally, mind you, started a revolution.

This time, Aziraphale had assured him, would be quite different.

“It’s supposed to be a holiday,” the Angel had said.

Not that they’d had anything else but holidays these past two years, but a change of scenery seemed appropriate and the US of A was as good a place as any other.

_Besides_ , Crowley thought, _so much potential for mischief_.

So far he’d taken out the Wi-Fi across town, glued ten coins to the sidewalks, switched out every ‘pull’ sign he could find with a ‘push’ sign, created a massive traffic jam, and made half the clocks run late1.

“There you go, love.” A plate with a generous slice of apple pie was set on the table and the man-shaped being across from Crowley made a face that looked like it was trying very hard to be both exasperated and excited.

“You told me to order for you, so I did,” Crowley said, innocently as you please, “And I happen to be rather fond of apples.”

Aziraphale’s expression morphed into something soft and he picked up the fork to try the pie, letting out a sound that was just this side of too obscene for a public place, making the woman passing their table blush and the man with her glare at them.

“Enjoying yourself, angel?”

The Angel in question did the little wiggle he always did when he was particularly pleased with something. “Temptation accomplished,” he said, smiling so, so brightly it darkened everything around them in comparison before holding out the fork for Crowley, “Here,” he offered, “You must try.”

Crowley rolled his eyes fondly, though the gesture was rather lost due to the sunglasses hiding his eyes, as he leaned forward.

Neither noticed the two men entering the diner

(1 Crowley’s wiles were directly or indirectly responsible for two divorces, two missed job interviews, ten bloody noses, and one loose cow on the highway2)

(2 Her name was Betsy. It was the most exciting day of her life and she’d tell all the other cows about it for the rest of her life)

* * *

The only other people in the diner were two men sitting by the window, two cups of coffee and one plate with apple pie between them.

“Awesome,” Dean muttered, eyeing the pie and pointedly ignoring the fact that the armful of blond and pastel was currently feeding tall, dark, and douche-y.

“What can I get ya?” the waitress asked.

“Well – Molly,” Dean read her nametag, “How ‘bout some of that apple pie?”

“’fraid that was the last slice,” Molly said and Dean could feel the smile steadily dripping of his face, “We still have cake, though.”

“No, thanks,” Dean answered, “Just coffee is fine.”

Molly nodded, scribbling something on her notepad, and turned to Sam for his order, but Dean had already stopped paying attention, his gaze wandering over to the two men with the last slice of apple pie.

The skinny one with the red hair and the sunglasses was snickering while his companion shook his head and muttered something that sounded like a “really, dear” under his breath before shoving another forkful of pie into the redhead’s face at which point Dean realised that he should probably stop staring3. It was easier said than done. At this point, Dean had enough self-awareness to admit he perhaps, maybe, quite possibly wasn’t the person he always pretended to be and that, yes, he appreciated a nice set of abs and a five’o’clock shadow just as much as boobs and curves, but he’d be damned if he ever acknowledged that out loud.

“Right,” he said choosing a table as far away from the couple as possible. He turned towards Sam and asked, “What’s the plan?”

“Well,” Sam started, pulling out his laptop, undoubtfully to bombard him with facts on a case nearby or perhaps a detailed road plan of all the people they should visit now that everyone was alive again but instead of the usual word-vomit, he merely frowned, “That’s odd,” he muttered.

“What is?” Dean asked, trying very hard to keep his eyes on his brother.

“No Wi-Fi.”

“Yeah, sorry about that,” Molly said, setting down their coffees, “We’ve been having problems all week.”

“When’d it start?” Sam asked, closing the laptop again.

“Monday, I think.”

The two Hunters shared a meaningful glance. Quite a lot of things had gone awry around here since Monday.

“Thanks.”

Molly wandered off back to the counter while Dean took a sip from his coffee, burning his tongue but doing his best not to show it.

“Alright,” he started with only half the enthusiasm he’d usually have for this sort of thing, “No Wi-Fi, clocks are going haywire, busses are late, things go missing and show up somewhere else, people break into fights left and right,” he summarised.

“Trickster?” Sam suggested

“It would explain the reports.” Dean shrugged, mentally going through everything they’d heard so far while also wishing they could leave it be, just this once. After everything that had happened, they deserved a break.

“Also means we should be careful,” Sam added, making Dean pause.

“Us?” he asked, “Why us?”

“Remember that case in Ohio, couple years ago?” Sam asked, “With the dead professor and the alligator in the sewers?”

“Yeah, but that was Gabriel, not a Trickster,” Dean argued.

“Gabriel _is_ a Trickster,” Sam said. “And anyway, that’s not the point,” his brother went on, giving Dean a look as if he was being purposefully slow, “The point is that he managed to have us fight 24/7 just by being there.”

“Huh.” Instead of actually coming up with a reply, Dean simply drank some more coffee which was now at a perfect drinking temperature.

The couple4 with the apple pie was just finishing up, tall, dark and douche-y looking at his companion with a besotted look that Dean could see even with the sunglasses covering his eyes, while the blond seemed to bask in the attention, dabbing the corners of his mouth with a serviette before neatly folding it and placing it on the empty plate.

(3 Nothing to see there. Just dudes being dudes, feeding each other apple pie. Completely normal.)

(4 Were they a couple? Could two grown man feed each other apple pie and hold hands and not be a couple?)

* * *

“You are quite incorrigible, my dear,” Aziraphale chided once they’d left the diner, arms linked as they slowly strolled down the street.

“Aww, but you love it,” the demon teased, letting his hips sway a tiny bit more than necessary, making them bump into the Angel.

“Yes, well.” Aziraphale raised his chin and puffed out his chest. “Regardless, I should think that young man will miraculously find a nice slice of apple pie waiting for him when he gets home.”

Crowley let out a snort and shook his head. “And you call me incorrigible,” he muttered but tightened his grip around Aziraphale’s arm nonetheless.

“How would you feel about a little walk?” Aziraphale asked softly, giving Crowley an answering squeeze of his hand, “It’s such a lovely day, after all.”

“Anywhere you want to go, angel.”

Aziraphale’s lips curled into the gentlest of smiles, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “Just the park for now, dearest.”

The park was nothing to write home about. Usually anyway. When Crowley and Aziraphale got there, however, the bushes bloomed greener, the trees stood straighter, and the little pond conveniently forgot that it wasn’t supposed to have ducks in it5.

“Oh my, this is rather lovely, isn’t it?” the Angel remarked as they stood by the pond watching the newly arrived birds. Crowley hummed, then pulled out a bag of seeds and nuts and pointed towards a bench just by the water, holding the bag out for Aziraphale.

“Thank you, dear,” said the Angel, throwing some seeds and watching the fowl fight over who would get the best ones, before Crowley dunked one under, earning himself a slightly reproachful look from Aziraphale, “I have done some thinking…” he continued slowly.

_You have?_ Crowley wanted to ask, his heart speeding up with the nervous energy coursing through his veins.

“Course you have,” he said, hoping it sounded more teasing than anxious, “Always working, that big brain of yours.”

Crowley held his breath6 and waited, counting the seconds as they passed by, dunking another duck. Tick. Tick. Tick.

A gentle hand touched his arm and Crowley realised that he had never actually released the poor animal from his grip. Quacking angrily, the bird emerged from the water and flew off, away from them and the pond, but Crowley hardly noticed, his eyes drawn to the Angel, his Angel. His Angel who slowly raised his hands to Crowley’s face, waiting for the Demon to draw back and, when he didn’t, pulled of the sunglasses, gently, so, so gently

“We have lived in London for quite some time now, haven’t we?”

“Ngh – yeah.”

Aziraphale nodded, his gaze fixed on Crowley now, gauging his reaction. “And I was thinking,” he continued, “If you want, that is – I don’t intend to push you into anything – but, hypothetically, if you’d be amendable, I thought, perhaps, we could – and, please, this is entirely up to you. We can talk about it. We should talk about it before –”

“Angel,” Crowley gently cut him off before Aziraphale could talk himself into even more of a frenzy.

“Quite right.” Azirapahle took a deep breath, before continuing. “What I was thinking is, perhaps we could get a little cottage in the countryside. Not permanently, mind you, more as a – a home away from home, as it were.”

Crowley’s ears were ringing, and he still wasn’t breathing. “You – ahh – you want to – to buy a house. In the countryside. With me.” Maybe he’d misheard. Surely, he’d misheard.

“Well, it certainly wouldn’t be with that dreadful Mr. Holt. Would you believe it, he came into the bookshop last week to try and buy my Joyce first editions? Again?”

“Disgraceful,” Crowley commented, though he wasn’t quite sure what he was commenting on, seeing as his brain was still stuck on little cottage in the countryside.

“Rather,” Aziraphale agreed empathetically, “I sent him on his way, of course. Without my books, thank you very much.”

“Right.” Crowley noticed how strange his voice sounded, even to his own ears. “Right. Ngh – yes.”

“Pardon me?” Aziraphale asked, his eyes flitting all over the place while his fingers fiddled with themselves.

“Yes,” Crowley repeated, “To…what you said. Yes.”

A bright smile lit up Aziraphale’s face, genuine and blinding and beautiful, and all the tension he’d been holding in his shoulders went _poof_. “Oh! Oh, wonderful. I am glad. It’s going to be ever so lovely.”

“Ngh-uh-hu.” Crowley nodded his head and made a choked noise, split tongue poking out to wet his lips as the yellow of his eyes slowly took over the white while trying to get his stupid heart to behave normally again. “Lovely. Great. Perfect.”

Aziraphale smiled. It was a bright smile, a genuine smile, a smile that was so blinding and beautiful it almost hurt to look at, and behind them, a previously sad looking bush exploded into a hundred different colours and flowers grew that had never grown there before.

(5 The newspaper the next day would have a rather astonished article about unusual bird behaviour)

(6 A feat that was rather unnecessary since breathing was very much optional for him.)

* * *

When the two Hunters came back to their motel room, it was already late. Almost dinner time. Sam had dragged him through town to talk to the locals which hadn’t gotten them anything new except a woman who swore up and down that, for some reason, all her music had turned into Fifty Shades of Grey audio books , which, on second thought, could very well be something because she claimed to be “a respectable woman who doesn’t appreciate being associated with filth like that”.

“What the hell?” Dean stopped dead in his tracks, staring at the little table they had in their room, or rather, on what was on the table.

“What the hell?” Sam echoed, joining Dean in the staring.

There, on the table, lay a neatly wrapped slice of apple pie, completely still, completely inanimate, but so very tempting.

“This is weird, right?” Dean asked, slowly approaching the pie.

“It’s very weird,” Sam agreed, “Maybe you shouldn’t touch it.”

“I wasn’t going to,” Dean snapped but didn’t take his eyes off the pie. He was tempted, alright, it looked so good, fresh and gooey and homemade.

“Still no Wi-Fi,” came Sam’s voice from behind them.

“What?”

“I said: Still no Wi-Fi.”

Dean sputtered. “You’re worried about Wi-Fi, now?”

The younger Winchester rolled his eyes, closing his laptop. “If we had Wi-Fi, maybe I could have done some more research.”

“We could call Cas?” Dean suggested, not exactly sure how that would help, except that it would. Probably. Hopefully7.

“Yeah.” Sam nodded. “You do that.” There was something in his voice, something that Dean was very pointedly ignoring right now. This wasn’t the time or the place to open that particular can of worms, not that there ever would be a time or a place for that to happen. Not that there even was a can. Or worms. No sir, nothing to see here, move along. “Of course,” Sam added, “There could be a very easy explanation for this…”

Dean looked over to his brother who looked right back at him.

“The Trickster.”

(7 It wasn’t that he was simply anxious to see Cas. Why would he? Armageddon had been averted. Again. The world was safe. Chuck was human. Jack had brought everyone back. It was all just peachy. No reason to worry about the complete radio silence for the past couple weeks where they’d heard nothing from Cas safe for a quick text letting them know that he was alive and kicking.)

* * *

They had just finished dinner at a lovely little restaurant, sharing a few bottles of wine and a plate of sushi8, and were now heading back to their rented house on the outskirts of the town, Aziraphale’s arm draped around Crowley protectively, possessively even, the two immortal beings enraptured in their own little world, sweetened by the taste of wine on their lips.

“What do you say, love? We could have breakfast at that little café we walked by earlier,” the blond suggested as they walked up the path to the door.

“Whatever you want, angel,” Crowley suggested, opening the door with a snap of his fingers, “More wine?”

“Don’t mind if I do.” There was an almost seductive smile on Aziraphale’s lips, his eyes piercingly blue even in the twilight of the house. Crowley went to retrieve two glasses and a bottle of a good red that just so happened to be waiting for him in the kitchen, still marveling at the fact that a beautiful creature such as Aziraphale would ever even grace him – a Demon, the incarnation of the Original Sin, the Serpent – with his presence9.

Together, the Angel and the Demon settled down side by side on the sofa, wine glasses in hand, steadily succumbing to the sweet blurriness of drunkenness.

(8 Well, they hadn’t so much shared as Crowley had drunk most of the wine while Aziraphale had eaten the sushi)

(9 The Angel was a right bastard when he wanted to be, don’t get him wrong, but in the end, when all was said and done, he was a good bastard)

* * *

They’d been up all night, pinning little red pins to the map on the wall, trying to locate their Trickster, reading up on lore and possible spells that might help, and waiting for Cas who’d dropped by at around 4 in the morning with no word of where he’d been or what he’d been up to or what his last words had meant before being sucked into a some crazy-ass hell-dimension. He hadn’t looked at Dean once since arriving. It was fine. Everything was fine.

“Would you be able to sense it?” Dean asked just as the sun rose over the treetops into their motel room, “The Trickster, I mean.”

“Possibly,” Cas answered, studying the map on the wall before taking another look at the pie, “There’s something about this, that feels…familiar.”

“Familiar how?” Sam asked.

“I’m not sure.”

As much as Dean wanted to, he refrained from groaning in frustration. After everything that had happened, with Cas especially, he felt that maybe, just maybe, he’d been unfair towards the Angel, taken him for granted when, really, he was doing them a favour, helping them because he wanted to, not because anyone told him to, came running whenever Dean called because, for whatever reason, he deemed Dean worthy10.

“Right,” the Hunter said instead, “So, stuff has been happening all week all over town, most of it around the diner, that old bookshop, and these holiday retreats…so what? Our Trickster’s here on vacation?”

“How about we split up?” Sam suggested, ignoring Dean’s joke.

“Right, ‘cause that never went wrong.”

Sam pulled one of his many bitchfaces, snapping back, “Do you have a better idea, Dean?”

Reluctantly, Dean had to admit that, no, he did not have a better idea. “Cas?” He turned towards the Angel. “Could you take out a Trickster?”

“Yes.”

“Alright.” Nodding his head, Dean continued, “You take the vacation houses. Sam, the bookshop. And I’ll go back to the diner.”

Sam pulled another face but luckily stayed quiet, probably knowing full well that Dean only took the diner in hope of maybe getting some of that apple pie after all.

“Alright,” the younger and taller brother agreed, “Stay in touch. Tricksters are dangerous.”

(10 In the deepest darkest corner of Dean’s mind, there was a room with more locks than could be counted, inside that room was a hidden safe, impossible to find unless you knew it was there, and in that safe were many things, amongst them a list of Things To Not Think About, that’s where that particular information was stored, alongside with his entire childhood experience, Sam’s death, and Hell )

* * *

Crowley was in a good mood.

He’d spent most of the night with his head in Aziraphale’s lap, listening to the Angel read from his favourite poems until he had drifted off into a dreamless sleep only to find, upon waking up, that Aziraphale, too, had fallen asleep. The Angel didn’t sleep often which was why it was all the more beautiful, endearing even, when he did, and Crowley would rather take a bath in Holy Water than wake him up. Carefully, he had detangled their limbs, made some tea for Aziraphale that would stay hot until the Angel woke up11 and left the house to pick up some breakfast.

Outside the air was clean and sweet, birds singing in the trees and children playing in one of the gardens around him, their laugher sounding through the streets, making Crowley smile. He’d always had a soft spot for kids, not that he would ever admit that out loud to anyone, not even Aziraphale12.

Still smiling, Crowley began the short walk into the town centre, not seeing the man-shaped being in a beige trench coat that was lurking behind a house corner.

(11 The mug had trembled as Crowley had hissed threat after threat at it and the tea inside didn’t dare stay anything but at perfect drinking temperature)

(12 Aziraphale knew)

* * *

“Hey Cas,” Dean answered his phone. He was sitting in the diner, a coffee and no pie in front of him. “You found something?”

“It’s a Demon,” Cas’ gravelly voice sounded over the line.

“What?”

“We’re not looking for a Trickster. It’s a Demon.”

“Aww, shit.”

“I believe he is no regular Demon either,” Cas continued in a low voice. It sounded like he was walking.

“What’s that mean?” Dean asked, sipping at his coffee.

“It looks…different. I can’t explain it, but I’ve never seen anything like it. This is no human soul that has been corrupted it’s…purer, somehow.”

_Great_ , Dean thought sardonically. “What’s it doing?”

“Going into town, I’m following.”

“A’right, be careful, Cas. Who knows what the bastard’s up to.”

“I will stay in touch.” And then the line went dead, and Dean had to stop himself from groaning out loud or, even worse, headbutting the table.

“Refill?” Molly asked. Dean hadn’t even noticed her approaching.

“Yes, please.”

* * *

The little café at the corner didn’t do takeaway and yet one Anthony ‘just a J, really’, Crowley walked out of the door with a white plastic bag dangling from his arm, humming Good Old Fashioned Lover Boy under his breath.

_Now_ , he thought, _the question is, should I get some more of that apple pie?_

He thought of Aziraphale’s little wiggle and the light in his eyes and the answer was, of course, yes, _yes, I should_.

The diner was just up the road, nearly empty safe for a man sitting in the back, drinking coffee. He looked somewhat familiar, but Crowley didn’t dwell on that too long. After 6000 years amongst humans, they all began to look the same.

“Good morning,” the waitress greeted him enthusiastically, “What can I get’ya?”

“Some apple pie, would be lovely. Takeaway.”

“Some apple pie coming right up,” she replied. In the corner, the lone guy nearly choked on his coffee and behind Crowley the door opened. “Here you go.” The waitress handed him another white plastic bag.

“Cheers,” Crowley said and turned to leave. He couldn’t wait to see Aziraphale’s smile when the Angel saw all the food Crowley had gotten him.

From the corner of his eye, he saw that the lone man was no longer lonely. In fact, he wasn’t even sitting anymore.

Humming under his breath once again, Crowley started making his way back to the house, to Aziraphale, to a lazy day inside with food a-plenty, preferably some good wine, and shitty day time TV13.

(13 Crowley had to admit that that had been one of his better ideas and, for once, there was no risk of it coming back to bite him in the ass)

* * *

Dean had thought he’d misheard when the same asshole from yesterday had entered the diner and gotten apple pie. He’d just been about to loudly complain to Molly when Cas had entered.

Dean frowned. “What are you doing here?”

Instead of answering, Cas sat down across from Dean, an unreadable expression on his face.

“The man in the sunglasses,” he muttered, “That’s him.”

Dean almost did a double-take. Almost. “The Demon?”

Cas nodded. “I don’t think he noticed me following him.”

The potential Demon in question took his apple pie and started walking out of the diner.

“Should we take him out?” Dean asked.

“I want to question him first,” Cas replied, “He is…different. I don’t like it.”

_Makes sense_ , Dean thought. “Let’s take him back to the motel.”

One quick call to Sam had all three Hunters gathered on the street, following the man in the sunglasses.

“Okay, here’s the plan,” Dean started, quickly checking his pockets for his gun and Angel blade, “I’ll get the car, we have a Devil’s Trap bag in there, so he won’t smoke out. We gotta be fast, bring him back to the motel. Sam, you go back now, draw a Devil’s Trap there. Cas, with me.”

It was easy, ridiculously so, to follow the Demon and pull the bag over his head.

“Wha –”

“Easy,” Dean growled, pressing his Angel blade against the Demon’s throat, “This is a Holy blade, it can kill you, so don’t try anything.”

The Demon went tense but stopped struggling and together Dean and Cas pushed him into the boot of the car.

“Come on, let’s head back.”

The car park of the motel was deserted, and Sam was already waiting for them.

“I put the security cameras on loop,” the taller man explained, “Let’s get him inside.”

Inside, there was a carefully drawn Devil’s Trap around a chair waiting for them. Dean quickly disposed the Demon on the chair while Cas tied him up before pulling the bag off his head. The pair of sunglasses clattered to the ground and the Demon let out a noise that sounded like a very animalistic hiss.

“What. In sssomebody’sss name. Is wrong with you people?”

Dean wasn’t sure what he would have said to that and he would probably never find out. The Demon bound to the chair before them opened his eyes to glare at them14, revealing pale yellow irises that made Dean’s blood freeze.

“Dean –” Sam muttered next to him.

“Yeah, I see it.”

It wasn’t Azazel. The eyes were different, the pupils narrow, reminding him of a snake, but they were yellow nonetheless and, as far as Dean was concerned, that was all the prove they needed.

“Who do you work for?” Cas demanded stepping next to Dean. As soon as the Demon saw the Angel, his eyes narrowed, before he let out another hiss, his mouth pulled into a hateful sneer.

“Who do I work for? Who do _you_ work for?” he snapped, “Who set you up to this, then, huh? Michael? Or was it that slick prick, Gabriel?”

Dean frowned slightly. _Michael? Gabriel?_

“What?”

“Was it not enough that you tried to kill him?” the Demon continued, “Quite unsuccessfully, may I add. No, now you go after me?”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Sam asked, clearly as confused as Dean.

“Ssstay out of thisss, human.”

“Who do you work for?” Cas asked again, stepping closer, just outside of the Devil’s Trap, “Who sent you?”

The sneer slowly morphed into a smirk though his gaze remained as hard as ever. “We seem to be at an impasse, gentlemen,” he announced with an air of grandeur that really rubbed Dean the wrong way.

“Oh, fuck this,” the Hunter muttered, stalking over to his duffle bag to get the Holy Water. “You will answer our questions,” he demanded, unscrewing the cap.

“Is that –” the Demon began suspiciously, and Dean couldn’t help but grin at the hint of fear he could now see in those disturbingly yellow eyes

“Holy Water.”

(14 glarefully)

* * *

_Fuck._

6000 years. 6000 fucking years he’d been on this earth now. He’d seen empires rise and fall. Wars waged and lost. He’d survived the Egyptians, the Romans, the Crusades. He’d made it through the 14th bloody century, for crying out loud. He’d stopped the Apocalypse and lived to tell the tale.

_This is not how it’s supposed to go._

The man with the Holy Water slowly approached him, a malicious grin on his lips while the other human and the Angel stood by and watched.

“Tell us who you work for,” the tall man with the shaggy hair said but Crowley ignored him, trying almost frantically to find a way out of this. He’d been playing along, wanting to see what they wanted, but he had not signed up for _this_. The Devil’s Trap around him was useless, of course – lower Demons, twisted and corrupted human souls, it might have been able to hold, but Crowley was the Serpent of Eden, the incarnation of the Original Sin, a former Archangel. Point was, it was about as effective as trying to catch smoke with your hands, that is to say, not at all. What was, however, highly effective at keeping him right where he was, was the Angel in the room, the three Holy blades, and, now, the Holy Water. He had no doubt that one wrong move would get him turned into a sizzling pile of infernal goo.

_Think, Crowley, think._

“Wouldn’t do that if I were you,” he warned the man, a Hunter no doubt, “In fact, you might want to let me go. I’m already late. If you kill me, you’ll have to deal with a very upset Aziraphale and believe you me, you do not want to meet the Angel when he’s upssset.” His stupid serpent tongue got a bit in the way on that last word but judging by the way the two humans flinched at the sound, maybe that wasn’t so bad.

“Oh yeah?” the Hunter with the Holy Water said, scoffing as he poured it over his Holy blade, “And what’s he gonna do?”

The thing was, Crowley knew how ruthless Aziraphale could be. Sure, every other century he got himself into a bit of a pickle and Crowley was always quick to play the knight in shining armour but, and here’s the thing, the Angel was as far from a damsel in distress as one could get. If he’d wanted to, he could have gotten himself out of every single tricky situation just fine. Crowley knew this. Aziraphale knew this. And Crowley knew that Aziraphale knew this. And Aziraphale knew that Crowley knew this. And Aziraphale knew that Crowley knew that Aziraphale knew this. And – well, there was a lot knowing going on anyway.

Back to the point.

Aziraphale could be brutal, if he wanted to be, and in the last two years, he’d had been far more lenient with his bastard-streak, finally able to be truly and fully himself now that their respective Head Offices weren’t watching anymore.

_I’m sorry, angel…_

But his Angel couldn’t hear him, of course.

Throwing his head back, Crowley let out a sound not unlike air escaping a wheel if said air was highly frustrated and also scared for its life. “Are you happy now?” he shouted at the ceiling, “is this what you bloody wanted? It’s the fucking Apple Tree all over again. Put it right there – right there where everyone can see it, but as soon as I touch it, it all goes to shit! Just couldn’t cut it, could I? I swear to – I fucking swear, if you harm Aziraphale – he had nothing to do with this! Nothing! All me. Always!”

“Is he – what _is_ he doing?” one of the men in front of him asked.

“Hey!” the short, mean one with the Holy Water snapped at him, “God ain’t not listening.”

_I know_ , Crowley thought furiously, _She hasn’t been listening in a very long time_.

“Now,” the man continued, “Who do you work for?”

Crowley lowered his head, staring at the man, really seeing him. There was something about him, something he hadn’t really noticed before. A darkness settled deep in his soul, the mark of Hell, but also a brightness unlike any other human, touched by Heaven.

_Strange._

The man came closer while Crowley tried to subtly put as much distance between himself and that blade as possible, the knife hovering in the air, one droplet of Holy Water running down the blade, down, down, down, clinging to the metal –

BOOM

The door burst open.

There were eyes. So many eyes. The head of a lion, an eagle, an ox. And wings of fire, pure and white and burning – beautiful.

“Aziraphale!”

“Shit,” someone swore, two guns started shooting but Crowley didn’t care, all he could see was his beautiful, beautiful Angel standing in the door, righteous fury burning through him as he walked on, completely unbothered by the bullets.

“Stop!” Aziraphale’s booming voice commanded and, miraculously, the shooting stopped. Everything stopped.

Crowley looked around to see the two men with their guns raised, frozen. A rain of bullets was hanging in mid-air. And slowly, gradually, the fire in the Angel faded to a brightly glowing ember, waiting for another spark, the heads merged together into something more human and the majority of eyes closed.

“Oh! Oh dear,” he exclaimed, rushing forward, towards Crowley, “Oh, dear.”

“Aziraphale!” It was very possible that it was the only word left in Crowley’s vocabulary, or that was what his brain thought, anyway.

The other Angel, the one with the dark hair and the trench coat, stepped in front of Aziraphale, not at all affected by Aziraphale’s quick miracle, a shiny, silver blade in his hand.

“What is the meaning if this, brother?” he asked.

“Brother?” Aziraphale asked, so preciously puzzled and maybe slightly indignant. Somewhere on a different plane of existence, his once again tucked away feathery wings ruffled. “Now, I hardly think that –”

“Let my friends go,” the brunet demanded, slowly raising his blade.

Aziraphale sighed but snapped his finger. The two men stumbled forward and the bullets, previously hovering in the air, fell to the ground.

* * *

“What –” Dean began, looking around frantically, but interrupted himself when he saw a man standing behind his back, right in front of Cas, one foot inside the Devil’s Trap. It was the very same man he’d seen the day before in the diner, feeding apple pie to the Demon. “Hey!” he shouted, raising his gun once more.

“Dean, wait!” Cas urged his friend, but it was already too late – Dean’s finger squeezed the trigger, weapon aimed at the blond man’s back where he was crouched in front of the Demon but…nothing happened. Dean tried again. Nothing.

The magazine was gone.

“What the hell?” Dean whispered, staring at the newly harmless device.

The Demon snorted. “Hell’s got nothing to do with it,” he said but otherwise didn’t acknowledge Dean, his sole focus seemingly being on the man in front of him, “Aziraphale,” he breathed out, softly, so, so softly, Dean nearly couldn’t hear it.

“Oh, you silly old serpent,” the blond – Aziraphale – muttered, he sounded incredibly relieved, “What were you thinking, getting kidnapped like that?”

The silly old serpent huffed and crossed his arms, the ropes pooling around his feet, looking more like a petulant child than a highly dangerous agent of Hell.

“You say that like it was a choice.”

“Your note said you’d just nipped out to get breakfast,” Aziraphale replied as if that was somehow relevant for anything.

“I did.”

“You didn’t come back.”

“Angel –”

“You were kidnapped,”

“I’m fine.”

“They had Holy Water!”

The Demon sighed. His arms were still crossed in front of his chest and eyes slowly wandered from Aziraphale to Dean. “There you have it,” he said, motioning towards the blond, “You’ve upset the Angel.”

And then, ‘the Angel’ turned to look at Dean as well15.

(15 Dean immediately wished he hadn’t. Staring down Hellhounds and Satan and God himself couldn’t have prepared Dean for the cold, calm, collected fury in Aziraphale’s eyes that was so at odds with the pudgy man Dean had seen in the diner, feeding apple pie to his boyfriend16.)

(16 Did Demons have boyfriends? Did whatever Aziraphale was have boyfriends?17)

(17 On that note, why was he so obsessed with other people’s boyfriends?18)

(18 the answer to that, of course, could be found on the list of Things To Not Think About)

* * *

The tension in the room was almost tangible as Aziraphale and the shorter of the humans stared at each other. The Angel had always been prone to Gluttony and Greed, indulged in the occasional Sloth and Pride, had even been known to give in to Lust19 and Envy20, but Crowley had never, not once, seen Aziraphale taken over by Wrath.

Until now.

“How dare you.” The words, barely a whisper, carried through the room, hitting the Hunter like a punch in a face, making him flinch. “How dare you,” Aziraphale repeated, louder this time, the air vibrating around him, “Attacking us for no reason whatsoever, taking Crowley and imprisoning him like some low-life Demon –”

“I wasn’t actually –”

“Hush, dear – you should be ashamed of yourselves! And carrying around Holy blades and Holy Water, no less! Really, the nerve! And you –” the blond turned towards the other Angel, “We have made it abundantly clear that we are to be left alone and I rather thought Gabriel and his consorts got that message loud and clear the last time we met. If he hasn’t, do let him know, that I have no quarrels to remind him.”

“Brother –” the unknown Angel started but Aziraphale cut him off.

“I believe there is no need to call me that. Not anymore.” And maybe Crowley was imagining it but there was a trace of satisfaction in Aziraphale’s voice, his determination to cut all ties to Above just as Crowley had done with Below.

“Wait,” tall and shaggy said, still holding his now harmless gun, albeit pointed at the floor, his arm loose at his side, “So you actually are an Angel?”

The Angel in question deflated just enough to give the human a look that, coming from anyone else, would have been nothing but dirty, coming from Aziraphale, however, it was rather along the lines of patronizing.

“That depends greatly on who you ask these days, but I should bloody well think so,” he answered, straightening his lapels while Crowley had to suppress a scoff. Ever so proper, his Angel.

“Then why do you fraternize with a Demon?” the Angel in the trench coat asked, equal part confused and affronted.

“Fraternize?” Aziraphale said sharply, clearly put off by the other Angel’s choice of words, “Crowley and I –”

“Crowley?” one of the Hunters asked, but Aziraphale ignored him.

“—are hereditary enemies and there is no fraternizing going on, whatsoever. He has been my greatest adversary for the past 6000 years. We’re also married as of late, but that’s beside the point! No one can thwart his wiles as I can.”

It was hard keeping a straight face at the gobsmacked expressions of the others and eventually Crowley gave up, grinning widely and sharply. “And you do it brilliantly,” he told the Angel. His Angel.

“Thank you, dear.”

There was a moment of silence and Crowley could feel the awkwardness in the air, in fact he was thriving of it, making people feel uncomfortable was one of his favourite past times21. Then –

(19 it was best not to mention Oscar Wilde in Crowley’s presence)

(20 it was best not to mention Freddy Mercury in Aziraphale’s presence)

(21 Up there with irritating and embarrassing them)

* * *

“A – Aziraphale, is it?” Sam asked tentatively. Dean kind of wanted to strangle him for talking to the Angel more than necessary but he had to admit that he, too, wanted answers.

“Yes,” the Angel – Aziraphale – confirmed, his eyes still cold but at least finally having lost the fury they had held earlier.

“Right, Aziraphale.” Sam took a step forward. “My name is Sam Winchester. That’s my brother Dean, and our friend Castiel.”

“Ahh, yes, of course,” the Demon, whose name was apparently Crowley, said, his voice dripping with sarcasm, “Always good to know the names of the people that nearly killed me.”

Everyone mostly just ignored him. Despite the demonic nature, despite the eyes and the hissing and cursing, Dean was pretty sure by now that it was Aziraphale they had to look out for.

“Castiel,” the blond Angel now said, “I don’t think we’ve met.”

“We have not,” Cas confirmed, “However, I have always admired your work”

“You might have been the only one,” Aziraphale replied, bitterness underlying the words, “But then, the American branch might have had different views, I never worked with them, you see.”

“They do not have ‘different views’,” Cas replied, air quotes and all, “I merely stopped agreeing with them.”

The Angel Aziraphale nodded. “Commendable.”

Dean frowned, replaying the entire conversation they’d had so far but coming up empty as to what they could be talking about. “I feel like I’ve missed something here,” he said, “Who exactly are you?”

There was a moment of silence in which Aziraphale and Crowley looked at each other, a long sequence of raised eyebrows, twitching lips, and wrinkled noses, before Crowley reached into the inside of his jacket, pulled out a pair of sunglasses, and put them on, affectively hiding his eyes, while Aziraphale answered, “Principality Aziraphale, Guardian of the Eastern Gate.”

“Eastern Gate of what?”

“Why, the Garden of course.”

_The Garden? He can’t possibly mean –_

“The Garden of Eden?” Sam asked awestruck.

“No, the Garden of Mrs. Smith from next door,” Crowley sniped, “Of course the Garden of Eden.”

Sam blinked, clearly unsure what to do with that information, but deciding to keep quiet; he’d always been the more impressionable one between the two of them, after all.

“Then you are the Serpent,” Cas concluded, breaking through Dean’s thoughts and bringing them to a screeching halt.

“Wait,” he said, “I thought that was Lucifer.”

Crowley shrugged and muttered something that sounded a lot like “PR” and “stolen credit”, which Dean gratuitously decided to ignore in favour of asking the only important question, “How come you’re married, then?” As soon as the words had left Dean’s mouth, he found himself regretting them, when he saw the way Aziraphale perked up.

“Oh, it is quite a fascinating story, actually,” the Angel said, “As I was saying, I was guarding the Eastern Wall and then that whole apple-business went down which was ever so dreadful, and exiling them nonetheless, it was a first offence after all, but that is what happened. Naturally, I couldn’t just let them go unprotected, she was with child and he was quite the charming young lad – I gave them my sword, you see. Come to think of it, I may have been the reason War was created, she did have the sword when I last saw it, after all – but I believe I’m getting off track. I was up on the Wall, watching them from the distance and the most beautiful Serpent, the one that started all of it, really, slithered right up to me and said – what was it you said to me again, love?”

“Angel.” Crowley’s face had turned the same colour as his hair, and he was gesticulating wildly but his husband didn’t seem to notice.

“Oh, that’s right,” Aziraphale continued, “‘That went down like a lead balloon’, that’s what he said to me. Of course, balloons weren’t invented yet, back then, lead or otherwise, but –”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley tried again, sharper this time, shaking his head vigorously, and Aziraphale smiled. Smirked, really. It occurred to Dean, then, that the Angel had very much noticed Crowley’s discomfort the first time but decided to go on anyway.

“Oh, very well,” the blond sighed, “The point is that 6000 years of companionship do tend to put some things into perspective, wouldn’t you agree, dear?”

“Ngk.” Still bright red, Crowley let out a sound that was barely animalistic, let alone human, but nodded, nonetheless.

“Not to mention the apocalypse,” Aziraphale added, as if an afterthought, a slight inconvenience that was barely worth mentioning, like someone complaining that the weather interfered with their Sunday afternoon plans, instead of the end of the world.

“Apocalypse?” Sam asked, voicing Dean’s thought. He did not like the sound of that.

“Yes. Two years ago.”

“Two _years_ ago?” That couldn’t be right. Surely, if something like that had happened, they would have known about it.

“Quite right.” Aziraphale nodded, not seeming in any way bothered that the world had almost ended yet again, but then, perhaps, that was something Dean could relate to.

“We didn’t notice anything,” Sam pointed out stubbornly.

“You wouldn’t’ve.” Crowley waved his hand dismissively, “’t was a local decision, don’t think they consulted with other branches.”

“Other branches?”

Crowley hummed but didn’t elaborate. “Didn’t work out, anyway.”

“We stopped it, of course,” Aziraphale added, not unsatisfied, “We had help from some rather resourceful humans. And the Antichrist, of course.”

“The Antichrist.”

_Definitely not liking this._

The Angel nodded. “Lovely child. And so brave, too! We visit every now and then.”

Dean blinked, trying to wrap his head around all of that. He was more than a little familiar with Apocalypses, of course, having averted a few himself, but the way they made it sound…

“And you let it live?”

It was the wrong question to ask. Crowley sneered, and Dean was suddenly very glad that the sunglasses were hiding the menacing yellow of his eyes, making Dean reconsider his previous conclusion that Crowley was harmless, reminding him that this was a Demon they were dealing with.

“He was a child,” the Demon in question now hissed, “Of courssse we let him live.”

The warmth and merit had left Aziraphale’s eyes, replaced by cold, blue steel, as he said “Adam is a good person. He loves this world and he loves his friends and family.” The ‘don’t you touch him’, went unsaid but it was there, loud and clear. A warning, or maybe a threat, and Dean swallowed thickly.

“They tried to initiate it here, as well,” Cas broke the tension in the room, successfully diverting both Crowley’s and Aziraphale’s attention away from Dean and towards him. “Multiple times.” His words were met with silence, safe for the incessant muttering of Crowley. Dean thought he could just about make out the words “blessed piece and quite”, and “no bloody imagination”.

“We stopped it,” Sam added, rather redundantly, Dean found, as the world was still spinning.

Aziraphale, however, didn’t seem to agree with Dean, lighting up like an over-decorated Christmas tree. “Oh, that is simply splendid, dear boy. Well done.”22

(22 It was a bit weird, Dean thought, being praised like that for saving the world. Most people usually didn’t do that, but then, Dean supposed, these two were not most people. Or even just people.)

* * *

Crowley was getting a bit restless, to be honest. This wasn’t at all how he’d imagined the day to go and he was quite ready for it to end now that no one seemed keen on dousing him in Holy Water any longer.

“Right,” he spoke up before Aziraphale could go on another tangent, “Glad that’s all sorted out. We’ll be on our way, then, getting breakfast.” He held back on the snide remark on how it was their fault that they hadn’t done that yet, though, Crowley found, it was heavily implied.

“Quite right,” Aziraphale agreed, “Oh, I do hope that little café has a table for us.” His words were accompanied by a sly glance in Crowley’s direction that had stopped being subtle by the time humans had first stared using the plough, and Crowley, ever the gentlemen, was happy to comply.

“They will,” he assured his Angel with a lazy snap of his finger, earning himself another blinding smile.

“Wonderful!” It really was quite inconvenient what that smile did to Crowley, he thought not for the first time and most likely not for the last. “Oh, but we mustn’t lose contact,” Aziraphale added, turning back to the rag-tag band of Hunters, “Why don’t we all get lunch tomorrow?”

Crowley blinked rapidly at Aziraphale’s suggestion, possibly using up his quota for the rest of the year, but unable to stop himself.

_What._

“What?” Dean echoed his thought.

“Castiel, I’d be fascinated to hear more about your experiences.”

Crowley opened his mouth, perhaps to ask what was going on, perhaps to let out some heavy expletives, but nothing came out.

“And I would like to know about yours,” Castiel replied.

“That’s settled then.” If Aziraphale was a different kind of Angel, he might have clapped his hands together, “Crowley, dear, let’s go. We have a reservation and I would hate to be late.” And with those words Aziraphale strode out of the motel room, while Crowley scrambled to catch up.

“What are we doing?” he hissed, glad that his legs were considerably longer than Aziraphale’s, making it easy to match his pace.

“Getting breakfast.”

Crowley sputtered. “That – that’s not – that’s not what I meant. You know that’s not what I meant.”

Letting out the barest of sighs, Aziraphale slowed down a bit, an almost pained expression on his face. “It’s as you said,” he began to explain, “When – _if_ – our former employers decide to get in touch again, it’s going to be all of us against all of them.”

_Ohh_. “Ngh – angel – ‘ziraphale, they – they won’t,” Crowley quickly tried to assure him, “They’ll leave us alone. We’re safe.”

“For now,” Aziraphale countered, “But one can never have too many allies. Besides,” he added, “I would rather the likes of them be with us, than against us.” Aziraphale’s hands reached up to his bowtie as he sniffed defiantly.

“I’m fine,” Crowley replied almost automatically, because he was. He was fine. Peachy, even.

“You could have died!” There was a crack running through Aziraphale’s voice and his carefully put-together mannerism, mirrored in Crowley’s heart.

“Angel –”

“I really was awfully frightened, Crowley,” Aziraphale soldiered on, “And you could have died. And I don’t wish for that to happen.”

There was a limp lodged deep in Crowley’s throat, making it hard to talk. He remembered only too well those few hours where he thought Aziraphale was gone for good, remembered only too well the emptiness and pain, the hopelessness.

“I’m fine,” he managed to choke out past the lump, his hands reaching for his Angel’s perfectly round, soft body almost on their own accord, “We’re fine.”

Aziraphale sniffed once more, more on the wet side than anything else, as they made their way to the café, side by side, arm in arm, hearts beating in synchrony.

* * *

The silence settling over them was tense and heavy. Now that the excitement of the last few hours had died down, it finally hit Dean that this was, in fact, the first time in weeks he was even in the same space as Cas, the first time since –

_“You changed me, Dean.”_

_“Why does this sound like goodbye?”_

_“Because it is. I love you.”_

_“Don’t do this, Cas.”_

_“Goodbye, Dean.”_

And it hurt. The memory, like an open wound bleeding steadily, a constant trickle of pain, and for once he couldn’t ignore it, couldn’t soldier on the way he usually did, his mind replaying that moment over and over again, all the things he could have said, all the things he could have done, all the ways he’d let Cas down. Again.

And it hurt.

“Right,” Sam spoke up, slowly stepping towards the door, “Breakfast actually sounds like a great idea, so I’ll just…go and get that.” He was giving Dean a meaningful look that could mean anything between ‘good luck’ and ‘go, fuck yourself’ – If it was the latter, Dean felt the sentiment was quite mutual – and then he was gone and he was alone with Cas.

“I should leave,” the Angel announced, his shoulders a tense line as he slowly edged towards the door.

“Wait.” Cas froze, giving Dean a wary look. “I –” _I love you. I’m sorry. I let you down_. “Thank you,” Dean managed to get out, “For, y’know, coming. Helping out.”

“Always,” said Cas, sounding so fucking earnest it shredded Dean’s heart into even smaller pieces than it already was.

“Cas.” Why was this so hard, damnit? Why couldn’t he just say what he wanted to say? Just once? “Cas,” he said again, his voice much more unsteady than he was comfortable with.

“Dean.”

“You could stay,” Dean blurted out, “If you want.”

Something twitched in the corners of Cas’ lips, something bitter and sad. “I don’t think that is a good idea.”

“Why?”

A heavy breath, almost like sigh, escaped Cas’ mouth. “I meant what I said,” he told Dean, “I meant all of it. But I wouldn’t have told you if I thought I would see you again.”

Dean frowned. “What – Why?”

Cas’ eyes were filled with pain and tears, a strange smile on his face, a smile that looked too much like the one he’d given Dean before – “Goodbye, Dean.”

He was leaving, leaving again. He was turned towards the door, steps slowly but surely carrying him away, and Dean was frozen in place, his mind refusing to process what was happening, happening again, how was this happening again, why couldn’t he just –

“I love you!” Time stopped, for just the split of a second, before jerking on motion once more nearly knocking Dean off his feet as Cas turned around, training his deep blue eyes on him. “There. I said it, okay?”

“Dean.” His name on Cas’s lips, like a prayer, saying so much and nothing at all at the same time. “I know.” _What?_ “I know you love me, Dean,” Cas said, his voice laced with anguish, “I have always known.” _Then why won’t you stay?_ “But I also know that it is just another thing you hate about yourself,” Cas went on, the fist tear spilling over, running down, down, down his cheek.

“So, what? You just weren’t gonna say anything.” It wasn’t even the question, Dean noted, but a realisation.

“Would you have wanted to hear it?”

_Of course!_ Dean wanted to say. _Of course, I would have!_ Except even in his own mind he could taste the lie.

“Yeah, well, I wanna hear it now!” he snapped, shock turned to something like anger. He could handle anger, welcomed it, even. “I wanna hear it and I want you to fucking listen when I answer, ‘cause I messed up, okay? I should have said it, then, and I didn’t, so I’m saying it now! What you said? About wanting the one thing you couldn’t have? That’s not true. You have me, Cas. You’ve always had me, so…” He spread his arms, hoping that it would get his point across, and as fast as the anger had come, it was fading again, leaving him bare and empty. “Stay. I – I want you to stay.”

Dean could hear the blood rushing in his ears and his heart frantically pounding in his chest, staring at Cas who was staring right back, unmoving, but at the very least he wasn’t leaving either.

“Y’know, this is the part where you say something.”

“I – I admit I don’t know what the social protocol for this is.”

Dean snorted. “Not sure they’d apply to us, anyway,” he muttered, tentatively stepping forward, “Just…What do you want, Cas?”

The Angel frowned. “I – I’m not sure I know,” he answered slowly, “I can’t say I have much experience with this.”

_You and me, both_ , Dean thought, taking another step until he was right in front of Cas, their chests almost touching. “Let’s just…figure it out,” he said, “Together.”

“Together,” Cas echoed, his voice barely more than a whisper, barely audible, hanging in the air between them.

Dean’s hand was moving, he realised, carefully caressing Cas’ cheek, cradling his face, his thump tracing Cas’ cheekbone, while his heart was beating a frantic rhythm against his ribcage.

“Cas, I…” he trailed off, searching Cas’ eyes for the answer to a question he couldn’t voice, “I…”

It wasn’t Cas’ eyes that answered but his lips, dry and chapped, better than Dean had ever dared imagine, pressing lightly against his own, gentle and loving and perfect.

* * *

Across town, an Angel and a Demon sat in a quaint little café23, the Angel indulging in sweet pastries and black tea, while the Demon watched and smiled and let his coffee grow cold, too invested in giving Aziraphale his undivided attention.

“Delicious,” came the Angel’s judgement, wiggling and glowing with happiness, a few stray crumbs still clinging to the Angel’s mouth.

Without really thinking about it, Crowley reached out with his free hand24 and gently brushed them away. “I can tell,” he teased, making a show of licking the crumbs from his thumb, a faint flush climbing up his Angel’s cheeks.

“You’re a menace, dear.” There was nothing but fondness in Aziraphale’s voice and eyes, and while Crowley hummed agreement, he might or might not have been fighting his own blush. “Do you think they’ll be okay?” Aziraphale asked after a long moment of silence, softly and clearly concerned.

“What – the humans?” Crowley said somewhat dismissively, “‘Course they will.”

“I am worried.”

“You always are, angel.”

Aziraphale let out a soft sigh. “It’s just – they have suffered so much, I could tell,” he said, his voice strained and his eyes doing the Thing.

Crowley rolled his eyes behind his sunglasses and replied, “Got their own Angel, don’t they? I’m sure he’ll look out for them.” Aziraphale’s eyes were still the Thing, still big and round and pleading Crowley to do his bidding without speaking the words, and Crowley was nothing if not a slave to his own stupid heart. “But,” he added quickly, “I’m sure we can check in every once in a while”

The pleading gave way to sheer delight. “Oh my, thank you!” Aziraphale exclaimed, as if he hadn’t expected this exact outcome.

“Don’t say I never do anything for you,” Crowley fake-grumbled into his non-existing beard.

“I would never!

_I know_ , thought Crowley.

“’nother pastry?” asked Crowley by way of changing the subject, earning himself a blush from his Angel.

“You do spoil me, dearest.”

“You deserve it, angel.”

They smiled at each other, stuck in their own little bubble, the world around them fading away to nothing but vague background noises, not even noticing the waiter bring over another selection of pastries that they never actually ordered out loud.

(23 Aziraphale’s words, not Crowley’s)

(24 The other was very occupied with holding Aziraphale’s)

* * *

Dean wasn’t sure how much time had passes when Sam came back, but he was glad that he and Cas were no longer in any compromising positions but rather busy with cleaning up the room so they could move on soon.

“So,” Sam began slowly, awkwardly, setting the bag he was carrying down on the table and looking at the other two men questioningly, “You cool?”

Trying to swallow around the lump in his throat, Dean abandoned the towel he’d been using to get rid of the Devil’s Trap and reached out and took Cas’ hand, watching Sam track the movement with his eyes. “We’re cool.”

His brother’s eyebrows shot up towards his hairline, just for a moment, before he seemed to gain back control over his face.

“Cool,” he said, “That’s cool – I’m – I’m happy for you.” He did sound happy, relieved even, though his eyes kept glancing back at where Dean’s and Cas’ hands were joined. “Look, Dean –”

“Sam, don’t,” Dean cut him off, letting go of Cas’ hand and stalking over to the table to rifle[?] through the bag, “Can we just eat? I’m starving.”

“No, actually, you need to hear this.” Sam rounded the table, making sure he had Dean’s attention, before continuing.

“Should I leave?” Cas asked quietly, receiving a stern “No!” from both brothers.

“Look, Dean,” the younger Winchester began, running a hand through his hair and sitting down, “I knew – some part of me always suspected –” He was clearly struggling for words, years upon years of pointedly Not Talking about certain things, finally catching up to them. “I never said anything, ‘cause I didn’t think you’d wanna talk about it, and I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry I never said anything. I’m sorry I never told that it’s okay.” He let out a heavy sigh, peering at Dean, his eyes wide and sad. “I know – Dad messed us up good, and I’m not saying I know what it was like, ‘cause I don’t. You made sure that I don’t. I never thanked you for that. You’ve always been there for me, always protected me, you’re the one that raised me, and – but that’s done now. It’s over. We’re – we’re free. Finally. So – so I’m glad you get to be your own person now, and I’m glad you get to be it with Cas.”

Dean’s face felt uncomfortably hot and he quickly averted his eyes. “You done?” he grumbled, pulling out a donut from the bag and biting it in half.

From the corner of his eye, he could see his brother roll his eyes. “Yeah,” he said, “I’m done. Now stop hogging the bag.”

Dean managed a grin around his donut, quite glad he actually couldn’t speak right now, lest something embarrassing left his mouth, and handed the bag over to Sam, while Cas took a seat next to Dean, accepting the other half of Dean’s donut when he offered it to him. It was no apple pie, sure, but a strange feeling settled in his stomach nonetheless when he saw the smile on Cas’ face, proud and happy and soft.

And if Dean’s eyes met Sam’s while he was and holding the Cas’ hand, giving his brother a minute nod of his head, a silent, barely perceptible _thank you_ , then that was entirely between him and his little brother.

Because they could do this now.

Because it was over.

Because they were free.


End file.
